The Sky Falls
by WinglessxFlight
Summary: Raging wars, lies, deceit and a sinful scorn for humanity. Trapped in the middle of dark times, meet Paris and Helen of Troy history's original starcrossed lovers...
1. Prologue

The battle has been fought and won. The war is over. The noises have stopped: you can sleep at night.

She's everything and nothing; she's light and dark, hard and soft – cold and yet she radiates warmth and compassion.

She's insincere. And it's working for her.

He's calm and solitude; he's strength and unforgiving, depth and honesty – young and yet he's a thousand years older than she is.

He's harsh. And it's getting him through.

They are the characters in this tale. You are the reader. And I beg you, with every fibre of my being, to love them. Because, after all, they live in you.

Hold his hand. Close your eyes. Hear her laughter like a bell.

They want to be loved. They want their hands held. They want to close their eyes and hear laughter in the heads. They are just like you. Perhaps they are you. But we cannot be sure. For now, I just ask you to love them. Remember that you love them. Whatever they say, whatever they do, love them. Love them before they turn around and love you.

And trust them; you don't want them to love you. Your world will fall away from beneath you and your heart will be ripped apart.

For they loved one another – and when they did, the world fell down.

The sky has fallen.

Let me tell you their story.


	2. Chapter I

She held his hand and he held hers. No passion, no feelings, just skin on skin: the lines of their palms matching up.

She believed in palmistry. Believed in hands and veins and blood and hearts. She believed in the future. He didn't. He believed in the here and now.

Well, believes.

But then, they live in the past tense. Always have done, forever will.

They belong in the past tense. And today they are in more than the past tense. Today you see them deep into history: for today they are but children. They speak in the highest notes of the register and they laugh without apology or explanation. Today they are children. Today they are purity. Today they are a burden only to those who must discipline them. Today the do not move mountains. Today they do not spill blood.

He takes her hand and she takes his. No passion, that day, no fire.

Listen, she's speaking to him.

'I hear your family have visited my sister. Do you find her well?'

He fiddles with the rings on her fingers; for, after all, he is but a child--and a bored child at that. 'I believe so.'

'I am glad to hear it.'

He looks at her for the first time – a rounded face yet to fold into angles and curves. 'Surely you have visited her?'

'I have no interest in my sister.'

He watches her face with interest. She seems to betray so much, but he's heard the stories. _Never trust her_.

'I believe my brother and she may marry.'

'I know.'

_Never trust her_.

A beat goes by, the music in her head.

'Hector is a soldier, is he not?'

'He will be. He has been constrained by ill health.'

A smile grows beneath her cheeks, spreading through her skin, never visible. One day that smile will be famous. But now it mocks him, jeers. She's judging him.

'I'm sorry.'

She's insincere.

'He is weak. Perhaps your sister can…_strengthen_ him.'

'Perhaps.'

She's already insincere. He is yet young. But I beg you, please, to love them: no matter what.

The sky hasn't fallen yet.

But be patient, dear reader, for it shall fall soon enough.


	3. Chapter II

She's untouchable. Untouchable and untouched. Her whole life she's been dealt with at arms length, the tips of fingers and kisses in the air. Her whole life she's been a statue, an idol, never a person. She's not a person anymore. He thinks of her as a figurine, perhaps an ice sculpture. He isn't sure if she's a real person.

She isn't sure if she's a real person.

She peers deep into the looking glass each night and can never tell whether or not it's an illusion. Sometimes, as she sits alone, she flicks her hand. She sees fingers flicker, hears the tune played by bracelets and rings, but cannot connect the movement to herself. Her body is not her own, her beauty is not her own and she feels vaguely guilty for taking the credit for it.

She's lying on her bed, her raven hair framing her face like a coronet. She's flickering her hand in front of her face again, but this time she feels less disconnected from it. A slow realization is dawning upon her.

When he held her hand the day before, he was the first person to do so in her life.

She's never felt so bonded to anyone before. It's as though there is a string between her hand and his. Her hand feels physically different, almost holy.

She is only a child, not yet nine years old.

And she has made a friend.

And it's not much.

And it's enough.

Watch the sky.


	4. Chapter III

He's lying. He doesn't like to lie, but sometimes it is necessary. Sometimes it is _right_, or so his mother tells him. But then, he's never really trusted her.

His mother's never made it easy for him.

When he was younger she'd tell him bedtime stories, tell him legends about a screaming, red-faced goblin- child: unwanted, unloved, abandoned on a hillside to the wolves. Tell him about the child cursed by fate, the child so uncared for that his own parents handed him without qualm to his death. The child who had so inconveniently survived. The child that she neither needed nor wanted, the child she had happily given up to death. The child she hated.

He's never really trusted her since she told him who the child was.

He used to think she was lying – that she was just angry and wanted to make him feel bad. But she was telling the _truth_. And he's lying now. It's a role reversal.

She was telling the _truth_. The truth, the only commodity that tastes sweeter when diluted. The truth, the obstacle, the barrier that's been there all his life. The truth, that's stopped him in his tracks every time he's tried to make something of himself.

The truth, a privilege he gave up long ago. And he's not yet ten years old. And it's bittersweet.

'Did you like her, son?'

'Yes.'

He's lying.

He didn't like her. He thought she was pretty. And he liked her rings. And her hair. And her eyes. But he didn't like her.

He's lying. And his mother knows it.

He's being insincere. And it doesn't suit him.

Watch the sky.


End file.
